


To Breathe Wild

by Cazathe



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22036039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cazathe/pseuds/Cazathe
Summary: [BoTW postgame spoilers] Link recounts some of his journey's most perilous encounters with the monsters of Hyrule.
Relationships: Link/Zelda (implied)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61





	1. Prologue

Zelda stopped trying to brush the leaves and pine needles and dirt out of her hair after a certain point, deeming it no longer worth the effort. No one said rebuilding Hyrule was going to be easy, she thought, trying to suppress her worries with a dose of optimism. Overlooking her castle atop a faraway cliff, it was easy to forget she wasn’t alone. Her champion-turned-confidant squatted behind her in the grass, keeping guard whilst rifling through his latest ‘finds’ from the slain wildlife. To be perfectly honest with herself, she took a scholarly interest in Link’s potioneering with monster parts, particularly their effects—it was all fine and dandy so long as he didn’t ask her to handle Keese eyeballs and the like.

“As much as I’d like to continue to admire the view...” As Zelda spoke, the sun dipped behind the behemoth silhouette of Hyrule Castle. “We should be on our way to Hateno Village soon; as much as we like to rely on Sheikah tech, we can’t exactly teleport two horses and twelve casks of ale with the slate...”

“Eleven,” Link replied simply.

“What?”

He was reading off the scroll in the dying daylight. “The order says eleven.”

“You—” she stammered. “You can read?”

Despite his staunch loyalty to the princess, Link’s lack of amusement at her remark was written all over his face. “To clarify,” Zelda cleared her throat. “It was a genuine question. Literacy isn’t common among Hylians, and I don’t blame them: these past hundred years haven’t done wonders for education. Where did you learn?”

Link’s pale blue eyes flickered from rest, likely calling upon a memory of the long past. “My pa. We couldn’t afford the tutors, but he knew enough from his schooling and passed it onto me.”

Now her curiosity was piqued. “And how well-versed are you?”

He shrugged apathetically. “Enough to get by. Just don’t ask me to recite the divine scripture of Hylia or nothing.”

“Link!” she clasped her hands together. “Forget the shipment for now; do you know what this means?”

She ran back to where he sat in the shade. “You have traveled from the peaks of Death Mountain to the pits of Gerudo Valley—in your lifetime alone, you must have accumulated enough experiences to write an epic! Seriously, if you can pick up a quill, then this is something you simply need to do before you—”

“Sounds boring. Who wants to read a bunch of feats anyhow?”

“Well, you may be onto something.” She cocked her head, taking his words into consideration before inspiration struck. “Tailor it to your interests, why don’t you? Promise me you’ll give it some thought.”

Link gave a noncommittal grunt for a response. One way or another, she would get something out of him.

* * *

Three days later, Link was holed up in the rebuilt castle barracks, practicing his technique with the Master Sword. He swung at the air, as if sparring with his own shadow. “Parry, disengage, and...” With a triumphant grin, Link leaped forward, slamming his blade against the planks that constituted the meager training ring. “ _Overhead strike!_ ”

“Master Link!” A throng of guards barged at the top of the barracks’ stairs, bearing the embroidered triangle of Wisdom on their chests: the princess’s personal guard. “Her Highness seeks an audience with you in the western spire, immediately.”

Link nodded solemnly and got running up the stairs. Zelda wouldn’t summon him without due cause—he knew that much.

Urgency on the brain, Link kept a fervent pace until he was outdoors, at which point, he called upon Revali’s Gale to circumvent the vertical distance between himself and the western spire. He reached the peak of his height, fell, and barely manage to throw his arms onto the ramparts ledge, pulling himself up. Zelda was there when he came to a proper stand, alone.

“What’s the matter?” He slurred the question together as if it were a single word, his gaze shooting left and right for anything that might pose a threat to the royal lineage. In a few seconds, he ascertained there was no immediate danger. The only thing to focus on now was Zelda’s lovely countenance—he would scarcely admit it out loud, but it was hard to stay mad at that knowing, mischievous smile, and the way she bobbed on her toes.

“Nothing of major import. Sorry if the notice worried you; the guards have a way of placing too much weight on my words, you can imagine.” She said. “Why don’t you step inside and we can discuss your latest assignment?’

The suggestion left Link with ideas unbecoming of a knight. A hundred years spent in chronological stasis did little to stymie the regular impulses of an eighteen year-old boy. He walked inside the spire door with a certain swagger, running through a sequence of affectionate gestures and romantic lines—

And the door shut behind him. Then locked. The butterflies in his stomach ceased to flap. “Oh, come on—Zelda! What now?”

“You have eyes! Look around!” He could hear the snicker in her voice: insult to injury.

Praise Hylia she couldn’t see him roll his eyes. He entertained this game, whatever it was. “I see a barrel of apples. Gerudo wine...”

“Your eyes, not your stomach. To your left...”

“A window, a desk, and... Oh.” Link grimaced. A quill, inkwell, and a leather-bound journal were placed conspicuously at the forefront of the desk, the latter opened to a blank page. Immediately, he knew where this was going.

“Today’s assignment: write the opening page of your story. Don’t dally now, I’ll be back in a couple hours to check on your progress!”

Her naivety left him bemused. Link’s thoughts ran sour. _A hundred years spent doing nothing but fending off Ganon, and she still acts like a spoiled..._

_Urgh. Never mind. It checks out._

He eased into the chair, leaning back on the hind legs so that his balance waned every few seconds. The window to his immediate right made him feel like a caged bird; if only he had his paraglider, escape would be no issue. Then Zelda would give him a stern talking-to, and they’d settle the matter over dinner.

If only, if only, if only. Gallivanting across the plains, mounting Divine Beasts, and delving into shrines had taught him to look for shortcuts rather than brute-forcing it. Yet, the challenge Zelda posed to him could only be solved in the manner he loathed: straightforward and without frills.

“Well,” he mused aloud. “First page ain’t gonna write itself.”

His train of thought ground to a steady halt when it came time to decide what to write about. There were a great many things he experienced along his journey: heart-throbbing affection, sheer battle-lust, despair itself...but all of that was too personal. He wasn’t about to let Zelda read that, let alone all of Hyrule, as she surely intended.

Her words came back to him. “Tailor it to my interests...”

Link leaned forward in the chair, bringing all four legs on the ground with a thump. “Interests...” The quill in hand felt light, like a dagger. And perhaps that was the jolt to the noggin he needed: the figurative lamp-light overhead, or the divine glow of inspiration.

He began to write.


	2. Foreword

At the behest of Princess Zelda VIII, I am committing the details of my journey to parchment. It is my hope that these writings instill some good sense into its readers, whomever they may be. Furthermore, it is my wish that this book becomes obsolete in generations to come, when the denizens of Hyrule can trod the land freely, without fear of assault.

**TO BREATHE WILD: THE SEASONED TRAVELER'S GUIDE TO MONSTERS, APPARITIONS, AND OTHER FIENDS**


	3. Entry I: The Hinox

_The golden rule when fighting Hinoxes is not to—failing that, run away. Docile they may seem, they become juggernauts when provoked, and can scoop up ordinary men into their gullet: I witnessed it once, and once was enough. Should you find yourself face-to-face with this pot-bellied, one-eyed ogre, stay as far away from its grasp as possible; Hinoxes are not endurance predators, and will not stray far to catch prey._

_My first fateful meeting with a Hinox was in the Gerudo Highlands. I had not eaten for three days, and hunger had made me brave—brave and stupid. The Hinox, like most of his ilk, wore most of his purloined possessions in a necklace around its neck for all to see, even as he slept. I felt mocked: the fat bastard was tempting me with the carp dangling at his chest, and I wasn’t about to pass up a meal because it was ‘dangerous,’ ‘ill-advised,’ or ‘suicidal.’_

_In hindsight, I should have listened to my detractors._

_Climbing a sleeping Hinox was was easier than I thought it would be. His lumpy body provided convenient footholds until I reached the rotund gut, from which I repossessed its fish. If only I had noticed his disturbed snores earlier on, before I found myself peering at a half-lidded, yellow eye. His lips flapped; it may have been lucky enough to catch a fish in his clumsy hands, but my scent must have given him a craving for Hylian._

_Armed with only a pot lid and a traveler’s sword, I knew I wasn’t going to emerge the victor in a scrape. I’m not ashamed to admit I fled, running the way I came up a suspension bridge. My attempts to slow him, laying traps with bombs and pelting the body with arrows, were fruitless: his massive strides easily kept pace with my jogging speed, and judging by the monster’s numerous battle scars, I wasn’t the first warrior to test him. At last, I knew my folly when he got close enough to grab me in one hand. He had me dead-to-rights, but in his grasp, I could still move my arms. Before I too could join my countrymen in being digested, I took a lucky shot at the suspension bridge—with a fire arrow._

_The Hinox realized my trick a measure too late. The two of us were plunged into the river, and he released me from his grasp in a panic. Though bound for a common destination, one difference separated us: I had a paraglider. He didn’t. I drifted towards the rock face, and with the last of my strength, threw myself onto solid ground._

_From there, I watched the Hinox drown without any satisfaction. For my trouble, I won a fish and a punctured rib._

* * *

**THE HINOX**

Otherwise known as Moblin Superior, The Gorger, Sleeping Beauties, et cetera.

An omnivorous species that eats what they can get their hands on. Deer they can swallow whole, but it seems they cut up their moose before eating. Do not ask me how I happened upon this information.

Merely competent with tools. They have the courtesy to cover themselves with meager loin cloths, and their necklaces seem to benefit their migration habits. They brandish weapons like an ape would: logs in places of sticks, boulders in place of stones. Any loot procured from fallen travelers seems to be bragging rights only, badges of honor among the species—what with them being far too large to use any of their stolen armaments. I would not call them bright by any stretch of the word, and you needn’t worry about a Hinox ever becoming too smart for our own good.

Danger rating: 3/5  
“Someone once asked me if I’d rather be as strong as a Goron or as graceful as a Zora. I answered that I’d rather have a Hinox’s intelligence. Never have I seen a creature so content in its own squalor.” - Revali, once Champion of Rito Village and a personal friend


	4. Entry II: The Bokoblin

_Bokoblins: small, diminutive, bullheaded, and vicious. One might think them dull, dare I say stupid, but under no circumstances should they be treated lightly—ESPECIALLY in packs._

_Before I elaborate, I should say that the common Bokoblin plays a vital role in the ecosystems of Hyrule; you would seldom find a monster that does not, in some way, make our land somewhat more livable. Magic flourishes where Wizzrobes walk. Lizalfos blood is a potent antivenom. And I myself have rested in the haphazardly constructed forts of Bokoblin design. They make for good shelter from the rain._

_A sole Bokoblin is nothing to cry wolf over. I prefer to think of them as mischievous sprites who occasionally need a good wallop to teach them a lesson: alone, they are rarely so brave as to kill, maim, or commit anything beyond the odd theft. There are Bokoblins who can coexist in relative peace with Hylians on the outskirts of society, so long as their hunting grounds are not excessively disturbed. This variety of Bokoblin is a shy, clever creature, entitled to a comfortable existence in its small lifespan._

_In roaming packs, they must be killed, and hunted down to their last._

_I once registered a horse at a stable in the Faron Grasslands. She was an untrusting mare, but quick: I told myself I would get her used to people. After all, even the most stubborn horse cannot resist a call to adventure with some proper coaxing; her name was Ixi, and I would have liked to befriend her. I never got the chance._

_Along my approach to the stable, I spotted Bokoblins nestled in the grass, peering at me as I passed. Unarmed, they made no attempt on me, but I still felt their envious gaze, even as Ixi and I dashed far away. I wasn't dumb, but I was naive, back then. I voiced my concerns about the nearby Bokoblins to the staff. The stable's owner, a rugged old man with more than a few scars across the arms, dismissed my warning._

" _We've got soldiers on patrol every day. Most of them are still out doing mercenary work, but I expect them all to return in three days time. A small handful of them should be enough to keep the little bastards at bay, and in case of emergency, we've got the firepower to fight 'em back. Have a look!"_

_He led me inside, showing off a chest at the foot of his bed. There was a small armory tucked in there: royal greatswords, shields, bomb arrows, falcon bows... I blushed._

" _And that's if they come. Bokoblins are cowards anyhow."_

_I nodded, leaving the ranch hands and Ixi with the promise that I would return at midnight. I was off exploring shrines, dauntless in my pursuit of power so that I might rescue Zelda. Little did I know my resolve to save her would come at the expense of others._

_Long after the sun had set, a rancid stench carried to my nostrils, all the way to the cliffs I spent the day trekking. It smelled of something charred. Thinking it only a bushfire that I could douse with cryokinesis, I turned back around, and quickly beheld a waking nightmare._

_The stable was burning down. Horses were set free in a panicked frenzy, whipped by their Bokoblin riders who howled into the night. The 'small handful' of soldiers, I couldn't sight: what I did see were the stable hands, fleeing the inferno only to be cut down, shot, or gored by the dozen-some Bokoblins now equipped with the very weapons meant to deter them. I did not spot Ixi in the chaos: even now, the boy in me believes she broke free at the first sign of something amiss, but every man knows exactly what becomes of unruly steeds before Bokoblins._

_Without thinking, I descended upon the grasslands and started firing back. I fired until I expended my good arrows, and laid bombs for the overeager riders seeking revenge for their slain comrades. The last member of the pack turned tail with a gilded polearm in hand: a well-placed rock downed him from his stolen mount, and I held him down with my boot before shooting him between the eyes with an ancient arrow._

_A Sheikah's ancient arrow is a terrible thing to waste on a Bokoblin. But I was in no state of mind to reason._

* * *

**THE BOKOBLIN**

Otherwise known as Ganon-whelp, Rats, Jabronis, et cetera.

A carnivorous species that excels in group hunts. An individual Bokoblin may only subsist itself on a diet of rabbits and foxes, but packs can take on larger game of bears, boars, and buffalo, whom they overpower and outlast with the aid of makeshift weapons. Very rarely, Bokoblins turn to Hylians for consumption: at the time of writing, I do not know what prompts this behavior. Desperation? Sport?

Unlike Lizalfos, who obtain weapons only by happenstance or theft, Bokoblins possess enough intelligence to craft their own crude weapons. When exposed to a dominant species' (Hylian, Zora, Rito, Goron, Gerudo, etc...) technology, it is not unheard of for Bokoblins to reverse-engineer the components and attempt their own imitation. Some of these facsimiles are benign—a hut, fishing rods, saddles—but oftentimes they become enamored with weapons more dangerous than rocks and sticks. These bolder packs are best dealt with swiftly, before they rile themselves into a raid.

Danger rating: 2/5 alone, 4/5 in packs of six or more  
"Gotta treat 'em like weeds, brother. Prickly weeds. Prickly weeds with a thing for knives and swords, who dine on the living and... I swear I was goin' somewhere with this comparison." - Daruk, once Champion of Goron City, life coach of mine


	5. Entry III: The Guardian Stalker

_Guardians, whether championed in the name of light, or corrupted in service of the dark, are terrifying. There is not a piece of machinery nor creature alive that can compare to the raw destruction they reap when loosed upon the land. The Guardians I have 'fought' number in the hundreds: the ones I have slain comprise only a few dozen. Even with the defeat of Calamity Ganon, the Malice is so deeply wired into their circuitry that I doubt they can be salvaged. That's the greatest shame of all._

_I have long since become conditioned to_ fear _the mechanical cries of Guardian Stalkers. Their high-pitched chatter signals death incoming—failing that, a crippling blow. Two years ago, as I wandered the Akkala region admittedly aimless, the distant chirp of a Guardian Stalker about to fire its main cannon sent an instinctual chill down my spine. I sprinted to the source of the noise until I glimpsed the machine's behemoth shadow at the base of a hill. To my surprise, it wasn't fighting trained soldiers, but ordinary townsfolk armed with pitchforks and pot lids; perhaps the Guardian had ventured into their territory and claimed one of their own, but whatever the case, they were furious._

_Recognizing the immediacy of the threat, I crept behind the Guardian with my blade at the ready. In the din created by the townsfolk, I managed not to arouse its attention with my boots toeing the grass. When I was close enough, I swung my broadsword at an exposed leg. Suddenly one appendage short, the Guardian tumbled from the top of the hill, rolling violently down the steep, rock-covered slope. The crowd in front of me broke out into cheers. But still, the Guardian was not destroyed._

_Even battered and dented, it persisted at the bottom of the hill. Like a fool, I doubted its tenacity and dropped my guard, a weakness it was quick to expose. I remember briefly squinting at a bright blue light, and in a panic, bracing my shield for impact._

_The recoil alone must have knocked me unconscious for a few seconds. But when I came to, I was being hoisted on the shoulders of those villagers, hailing me as a hero. Water was brought to my lips, bread placed in my hands; I felt great. Then I saw the Guardian at the bottom of the hill, and what I'd done to it._

_The upper half of its 'head' was exposed, a mess of wires and blue, crackling liquid. All of its working legs had been crippled in the fall. Still, the villagers were determined to see it torn to scrap, and who could blame them? Guardians were killers._

_I don't know what roused me into action, but I shouted at them to stop. "Leave it be," I said, or something to that effect. It couldn't move, and its cannon was destroyed by its own fire: there was no threat it posed to anyone anymore, I reasoned._

_I laid a hand on that cold, steel carapace and stared back into its unblinking eye, still frantically scanning me and chirping. But over time, its synthetic cries slowed and halted. It was only a machine—less than sentient—but I wondered what stories it could tell as a once great defender of the land. I set up camp next to it until nightfall, and left it alone._

* * *

**THE GUARDIAN STALKER**

Otherwise known as Protector Mark IV Revision VIII.

Guardian Stalkers often patrol one area restlessly, but the Malice within can provoke them to venture beyond their set dominion. These aberrants comprise the exception, not the norm, however. Guardians do not kill for pleasure or sustenance: as lifeless automata, this is simply their programming overwritten by Ganon. Until destroyed or significantly damaged, a Guardian can roam indefinitely, potentially outlasting Hylians and even Zora by centuries...

A Guardian is not necessarily intelligent, but it is adaptable. If you ever find yourself anywhere near one, don't stand around long enough for it to learn something from you; I suspect it neatly documents information about sapient behavior to find more efficient ways to kill us. I shouldn't disclose this information to the public yet, but the royal guard is working on a campaign to prevent more Guardian-related fatalities. "The three As," they're calling it: avoid at all costs, abandon your things, and alert the authorities. Corny, but they're not wrong.

Danger rating: 5/5

"If I may be so bold, do you think [Guardians] feel? I know it's folly: they're robots, but..." - Princess Mipha, once Champion of Zora's Domain, a steadfast companion in life and death


	6. Entry IV: The Lizalfos

_Often I envy the simple life of a Lizalfos. Basking in the sun. Drifting along river currents. Eating flies. Truly, the most base pleasures one can experience. As long as there have been Hylians, Zora, Gerudo, and Gorons, the Lizalfos have existed too: our odd, reptilian cousins._

_A thing to know about Lizalfos: although insular and not prone to wandering far from their dwellings, they are fiercely territorial creatures, mistrustful of anyone not their own. Thus, you, intrepid reader, should know it was incredibly difficult for me to learn much of them in my travels without having a pike thrust in my hind._

_So I had to become crafty. I knew a man who knew a fellow who knew an acquaintance that could get me in contact with a monster enthusiast. This individual, who I shan't name for the purposes of discretion, knew more about monsters than anyone else; if anything,_ he _ought to be the one writing this book, but he didn't strike me as someone who was willing to omit anything for the sake of entertainment, storytelling, you know._

_Excuse my tangent. I came into contact with this monster-loving man on some fey night, whereupon he introduced to me the end to all my Lizalfos-related problems. For no paltry sum, he parted with a peculiar (and I confess, ridiculous-looking) mask. So long as I wore it, he said, the Lizalfos would not be able to distinguish me from their own kind. Was it the physical resemblance to the monsters, or some pheromone the monster fanatic had imbued the mask with? I can't say myself; I disposed of the mask a long time ago._

_Naturally, I barreled straight for the nearest damp Lizalfos den I could find. It was dawn when I arrived at a beachside camp populated by ten green Lizalfos, bathing in the sun. They did not seem to notice when I joined their ranks, nor did they question me once I was there: they merely went about their daily business as I followed along. When their appetites grew restless, I joined them in the hunt. It was troublesome, swimming out to see with all that weight, but I played a crucial role in netting fish. When me and the other males returned with the newest meal in tow, the whole camp burst into these vocalizations that I assume signified triumph. How to describe it? It was scratchy and shrill, the syllable "keh" repeated over and over without pause. It makes the throat go dry very quickly. Of course, to our ears, it would sound ridiculous, but I didn't want to go blowing my cover by not playing along, did I?_

_By my rough estimate, I spent twenty-six hours among the Lizalfos. I left on a whim, just as I arrived: my departure went unnoticed, though I did take a spear for myself. Not bad craftsmen, the Lizalfos are._

_...And I relayed this information, this entire story, weeks later in a tavern in the recesses of the Akkala highlands. The fellow next to me asked why I did it. Such a simple, stupid question, and yet I couldn't give him an answer._

* * *

**THE LIZALFOS**

Otherwise known as creepy-crawlies, scavengers unseen, et cetera.

Preying on insects, fish, and the occasional small bird, the Lizalfos diet tends to be very homogeneous, settling on "favorite" foods and rarely straying outside what they can digest. Their saliva is highly acidic (as many splintered shields of mine can attest to), but this seems to be a defense mechanism rather than a function of breaking down food.

They are not unintelligent, but tend to think on a one-track mind; with persistence, a Lizalfos can train itself to catch up to a fish speeding along the brook, but might never consider making a rod or spear. Perhaps that's a species-centric way of looking at things—is there something like pride in their quadrupedal gait?

Danger rating: 2/5

"Tricky bastards. I don't like how their eyes are always roving around—always watching, always observing." - Chief Urbosa, once champion of Gerudo Town, and a model warrior


	7. Entry V: The Wizzrobe

_I don’t claim to be an expert on anything: not swordfighting, not archery, and especially not documenting monsters. The Wizzrobe is a testament to my own lack of knowledge, simply because I know next-to-nothing about the damn things, despite having encountered, fought, and survived a fair number on my travels._

_That said, I can still draw inferences—not facts, mind you—about what they are. First, I believe the Wizzrobe is at heart, a pure creature: it acts upon childish wills without any regard for concepts of good and evil. It only so happens that most of the time, the allure of their magic scepters tempts them towards mischief and mayhem. With a wave of their wand and a nifty little jig, these unassuming imps wield power that can bring down villages: sudden drought spells, freak snowstorms, and thunderstorms that last for days on end. This in mind, it’s best not to cross their paths and stoke their curiosity, lest their ‘playmates’ meet a terrible fate._

_I learned quickly to leave them be. Gods, I made it my mission to leave them be. Yet it seemed that fate had other plans. It was far out in the west, in the Gerudo Desert, a little over a year ago now. I’m a self-professed hedonist for sand seal races, spectating and participating, and so is Chief Riju of Gerudo Town—I don’t want to give away the full details of my disgrace, but all you need to know is that I lost a bet. If I had won (I didn’t), I was entitled to a shield from her treasury. If she won (she did), I was to ‘take care of a problem,’ free-of-charge._

_Naturally, as soon as the word ‘Wizzrobe’ left her mouth, I was looking for a way out._

_“Now now. We had a deal, champion. You don’t want to be responsible for straining Gerudo-Hylian relations, do you?”_

_Reluctantly, I obliged the request and sat cross-legged on the floor, waiting for Riju to lay bare the details. She relayed a rumor about a roaming pack of Bokoblins who had taken to worshipping a magical entity, most likely a Wizzrobe on a power trip, offering tribute in the form of pilfered goods from poor saps unlucky enough to be caught defenseless. The chief couldn’t pinpoint exactly where they’d be, but she pointed me in the direction of Vah Nabooris’s old haunt whilst under the influence of malice: a part of the desert forever imprinted with enormous camel tracks._

_I left by nightfall, hoping to finish the job and beat the heat before sunrise. This proved to be a gross overestimate of my own talents. I had nothing to rely on without Bokoblin tracks, so my time was largely spent keeping the sand from flying into my breathing holes with my veil. By the time I located a clue as to their whereabouts, it was already 4 AM, which was practically dawn in the Gerudo Desert._

_Like breadcrumbs laid out in front of me, I followed a trail of discarded weapons and rupees until I happened upon an encampment. I knew I’d reached my destination when I saw a circle of stones with lines of red dye connecting them, like some half-assed summoning rune. What were they hoping to accomplish?_

_With my approach, the Bokoblins attacked on-sight. I came prepared, and after a drawn-out battle with a surplus of arrows exchanged, I was the last man standing, all the Bokoblins either dead or fled. It was 6 AM. The sun had already set fire to the sands, and I could feel it on my back. In my exhaustion and delirium, I think I imagined Riju there, reprimanding me for not having left earlier._

_"Well, excuse me, chieftain," I mumbled to an audience of none but myself, and promptly collapsed face-down. I prayed for some blessing of Hylia that I might be found in time by a passing merchant or maybe a Yiga footsoldier eager enough to capture me—at least then I would be taken to a lair out of the heat. Yes, torture seemed preferable to the sun in that moment._

_Then, with my face buried in the ground, I heard peculiar, prancing footsteps. They were light, unburdened by the sands, as though their owner might be walking on air. I lacked the strength to look up, but a fey whisper tickled my ears. The voice was too small and too quick, not interested in making itself understood, but I could parse levity in its tone, maybe laughing at a joke I didn’t quite (and still don’t) get._

_The next thing I knew, water droplets began to patter on my tunic and exposed skin. Acting on instinct, I rolled face-up so that my open mouth—dry as the chasms in Death Mountain—could catch some of the moisture. And I was rejuvenated._

_“Wait.” As soon as I could muster the word, I realized what was amiss. Rain, black clouds, and rolling thunder in the Gerudo Desert, a region known for its decades-long drought spells. I shot to my feet, the shortsword in my hand gripped with renewed purpose. Where was it, I thought, that blasted imp, what was it planning?_

_I looked over at the haphazard summoning circle the Bokoblins constructed to see a hooded silhouette hovering above in the eye of the storm, grinning unnaturally wide. A small hand waved at me. And then it was quite literally gone in a flash, the storm lingering for minutes after the thing’s departure._

_It took a long time before my pulse climbed back down to a relaxed pace. Once I dismantled the camp and did away with that awful rune, I felt satisfied enough to deem the job finished to the fullest of my abilities. I flagged down the nearest sand seal caravan, and promptly collapsed in the back of a carriage. I was going to offer payment, but apparently my reputation preceded me: the Goron coach had a brother with a friend whose nephew I saved from a Lynel, one time. Good fortune is funny like that._

_“A Wizzrobe saved me; why?” I mumbled, staring up at the cover during the bumpy ride. I couldn’t settle on any definitive reason, but I started on a hunch when I found my purse short a few precious gems and luminous stones._

* * *

**THE WIZZROBE**

Otherwise known as jinxers, magic imps, et cetera. Often mistaken for fairies, despite the size disparity between the two species.

A Wizzrobe does not demonstrate the typical traits we ascribe to organic creatures. Never have I seen one sleep, eat, or procreate; it’s only speculation, but it might be accurate to label Wizzrobes beings of pure magic. Where do they come from and why? I can’t say. Perhaps this physical plane is more to their jovial sensibilities.

Likewise, I cannot hope to estimate a Wizzrobe’s intelligence based on limited encounters. But I think there’s something there; an intellect they willfully ignore in favor of their fun. When push comes to shove, a Wizzrobe knows when to fight and when to run, and they can seemingly find kinship with even the most belligerent monsters. One would think, being skilled manipulators, they would quickly rise to the ranks of Ganon’s most fearsome ilk of minion. But to be blunt, I think they lack the motivation.

Danger rating: variable

“I know they aren’t inherently malicious, but that strange laughter outside my window at night isn’t comforting. I’d much rather they show themselves then insist on their juvenile little games!” - Chief Riju, current chief of Gerudo Town, clever beyond her years


End file.
